


if you want to sing out

by drunktuesdays



Series: tumblr fics [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Musicals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunktuesdays/pseuds/drunktuesdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt from itendswithz:  imagine if in season 4 Derek gets cursed to hear people sing instead of talk to him. Combination of the Scrubs and BtVS musical episodes. Just imagine the cast singing and dancing and Derek just standing in the middle of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you want to sing out

**Author's Note:**

> [repost](http://drunktuesdaze.tumblr.com/post/76138516350/imagine-if-in-season-4-derek-gets-cursed-to-hear-people) from tumblr 2/9/2014

Derek wakes up, and nothing seems out of place. He knows because he goes over it in his mind later, whether there was anything strange about that morning, whether there was anything that might have triggered the events of the day.

There isn’t. Derek wakes up, stretches in his warm, soft bed, luxuriates for a bit in the softness of his sheets, and then rises. He goes for a run, gets the mail, comes inside and showers. He has breakfast like normal, dresses like normal, says “good morning,” to the neighbors and gets noises of alarm and averted eyes as normal. There’s nothing out of place, nothing to make him suspicious until he gets to Deaton’s.

At Deaton’s, Isaac is singing.

  
Derek walks out, checks the front of the shop, pinches himself, counts his fingers, and comes back inside. Isaac is still singing, and Deaton and Scott are fully ignoring him as if nothing’s going on.

"Oh, the things he’ll never know," Isaac warbles to a close, and picks up a bag of trash, prepared to heft it out to the back dumpster.

"Nice skills, Oliver Twist," Derek says, folding his arms across his chest.

Isaac looks at him, blankly. ”What?”

"The singing," Derek says, gesturing at him. "What, are you trying out for play?"

"Are you feeling all right, Derek?" Deaton says, pausing. Scott and Isaac are looking at him in concern.

He decides to get some coffee. They’re obviously playing some kind of prank on him, and he’s not really in the mood for it. There’s a coffeeshop he likes on the corner by the sporting goods shop, and he makes for it. Their cinnamon latte will fix everything, probably.

A minute later he walks right back out. The entire shop had obviously been taken over by some sort of Broadway musical, but he’s not sure what kind of show has songs about burned bagels. Something strange is happening, and he doesn’t like it.

His phone chirps suddenly with a text from Scott. ”Can you come back to Deaton’s? There’s something going on.”

"Finally," Derek says out loud. He retraces his steps, and finds that everyone’s gathered, Argents, Stilinskis, even the little fox girl, Kira. He has a ninety day rule for new people now, and she’s almost at the end of it, which allows her access to a small nod from him. He hopes she feels honored.

"Okay," Stiles says when he sees Derek. "Let’s get started. So last night, after I finished, you know," and he makes an obscene gesture with his hand that his father slaps him for, "I set up the weird JuJu detector. This morning when I woke up, it was going off like crazy.”

Derek waits for someone else to bring up the singing and dancing, but no one does. Scott starts talking about patrols, and calling their contacts.

"I can call some of the hunters on our side, find out if they’ve heard anything," Allison volunteers, and Scott smiles at her warmly, approving.

Kira jumps down from where she was sitting on the counter, and executes a perfect ballet routine, all the while singing a mournful song about whether she’s a rebound for Scott.

No one looks at her. As she finishes, the room begins to clear, as everyone sets to their tasks. Scott comes over to Derek, obviously ready to map out the perimeter check.

"You didn’t hear that?" Derek asks him, in a low voice.

"Hear what?" Scott says, staring at him.

"Kira’s song? About how she thinks you’re using her as a rebound?"

"Kira doesn’t think that," Scott scoffs. Then he pauses. "She doesn’t, does she? I never—she can’t think that."

Derek sighs. ”Go find her, I’ll start the east side. Catch up from the west whenever you’re done.”

"Thanks bro," Scott says, and clasps him on the shoulder. "We’ll deal with your hallucinations when I get back."

Derek likes doing perimeter runs. He doesn’t have to talk to anyone, doesn’t have to depend on anyone’s help. It’s just him and his senses, sifting through nature, identifying and cataloging as he works his muscles. It’s calming, and takes his mind off of whatever mental breakdown he’s clearly having. Scott meets up with him eventually, and they compare notes.

"Nothing," Scott says, dejectedly.

"What happened with Kira?" Derek asks, all though he doesn’t know why. He definitely doesn’t care about all their dramas.

"You were right," Scott says. "I don’t know how, but it was good. I nipped that in the bud right away, so thank you."

"Any time," Derek says, and doesn’t mention the irish jig happening at the corner across the street from Deaton’s clinic.

No one else has come up with anything either, and Stiles shrugs. ”Maybe my Stuff Detector’s gone on the fritz,” he says. ”Sorry for the false alarm.”

"I’d rather go out for nothing than risk not paying attention to something real," Scott says, and they all split up.

Derek knows it’s not over, knows Stiles’s detecting thing isn’t malfunctioning. He catches up with Stiles, says “Can I look at it?”

Stiles looks at him, quirks an eyebrow. ”I normally request a nice dinner first,” he drawls. ”But your game is—”

"No you idiot," Derek snaps. "The…thing, the magic thing." He hates that they don’t have a grown up name for it, and Stiles refuses to make one. He sounds like an idiot every time he tries to talk about it.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Let’s go."

Derek doesn’t know what he was expecting to get out of it. He thought maybe he could smell something, maybe get some kind of lead on the …Broadway curse. Jesus, his life.

Instead it’s just a collection of herbs and stones, with a big LED light in the middle that’s blinking furiously. There’s no scent, no indication that Derek can pick up on, nothing he can chase or maim. He bends down anyway, inspects it as close as he can.

"Butt," Stiles says, in a weird voice. Derek isn’t going to react, because Stiles is Stiles, but then it clicks that the voice wasn’t weird, it was—

"Your butt," Stiles sings out. "It haunts my dreams, it invades my soul. Your butt, I think so much it takes a toll. Your butt!" and he ends it with jazz hands. Derek stares at him, and has no idea what to say.

"What?" Stiles says, after a long moment.

"Nothing," Derek says. He turns back to the thing. There’s nothing it can tell him, but he needs a moment to compose himself. Christ, this spell.

"I wish it was only about that," Stiles starts up, and Derek turns in horror, because what’s this one going to be about? He’s turning red, because he can’t handle anymore odes to his body parts.

But it’s not that. It’s not that at all. Stiles produces a guitar from god knows where and sings a full fledged acoustic ballad about all the things Stiles loves about Derek, that are more than his body. All though there is a part about his…ears? Derek loses track of that stanza, because he’s moving forward, knocking the guitar out of Stiles’s hands and kissing him.

Derek isn’t struck with the urge to sing, but there’s music in his head, some heavenly angel chorus type shit when he finally gets his mouth on Stiles. The slick slide of their mouths, the way Stiles’s hands come up and fist in the collar of his jacket. The blood rushing to his ears sounds like drums, and the noises Stiles is making is better than any of the routines Derek has heard today.

"Fuck," Stiles says, when Derek finally draws back. "I never—you didn’t—how did you?"

"No more talking," Derek says hoarsely, because talking leads to singing, and Derek’s done with that, for today.

Stiles is down with that, apparently, because he shoves Derek’s jacket off his shoulders, grabs the hem of his shirt and says “take this off before I take it off you,” which would be more of an effective threat if Stiles weren’t totally failing at getting his own clothes off.

They make it to the bed uneventfully, and Derek revels in all of it, the feel of Stiles, the taste of his neck, the slide of his skin on Derek’s. Handjobs turn into blowjobs, turn into Derek opening Stiles up with his fingers, getting Stiles slick and flushed beautifully for him. When Derek finally comes up to kiss him, to shove in, Stiles grabs two handfuls of Derek’s ass, says, “You’re letting me plow this later,” and Derek arches into it, says yes, yes, anything and kisses him more.

They wake the next morning, and Derek makes good on his promise, rolls over and lets Stiles worship him, lets Stiles rim him until he’s clawed the pillow beyond recognition, lets Stiles fuck him until Derek can’t breathe with it. Stiles doesn’t sing, but he’s muttering praise, good things, happy noises until they’re both sated and pleased, starfished out on the bed.

"The thing’s stopped flashing," Stiles says, yawning sleepily. "Wonder what that was all about." There’s a moment of silence, and then, "Did I sing last night?”

Derek bolts up right. ”I knew I wasn’t hallucinating,” he hisses.


End file.
